This Honourable House by Edwina Currie

anyone in the media had noticed. Then the question of marriage had been mooted, and both had found it beguiling. By then they were seldom away from each other for more than a few days, and each would admit with increasing warmth to missing the other greatly during those absences. It was not quite clear who had wooed whom, and it didn’t matter. They loved each other, they had the same outlook and objectives, and that was all that counted. This was what made her tick.
    Christine slipped back into bed. Benedict was still whispering to himself, his eyes tight shut. She let her mind roam again to when they would be going home. They were to live in his flat. It was large enough, and convenient for the Commons and for her company, whose headquarters were in Whitehall Place, an address that would impress clients, though naturally she would avoid anything too high profile.
    The flat’s decor needed attention: it was much too masculine. While Benedict was tied up at the House, Christine would give it some thought and devise colour schemes. Nothing too elaborate, just something brighter, less drab, and more suited to the private entertaining that would be required for his career and hers.
    They must get some decent paintings, or at least prints. Benedict’s taste in wall decoration ran, like that of many busy MPs, to posed snaps of himself with various dignitaries. He had installed framed photos of college days, where he was surrounded by other students in gowns, on graduation day and the like. Even when the other participants included well-known faces such as Andrew Marquand’s that one might discreetly point out to guests, Christine found them too dull for words. They would have to go.
    Beside her, Benedict stirred and opened one eye. ‘What time is it?’ he murmured.
    She told him, and touched his hand. He let her fingers rest on his wrist for a moment, then slowly withdrew and rolled over, away from her. But not before, half-asleep, he spoke again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled. She nodded without reply, and let him return to his troubled sleep.
     
    Tuesday at ten was not the most convenient timing. He would have to ask for the morning off work, without saying why. It was risky to let it be known that he was chasing another post, not with a rival company but outside the City. That might jeopardise everything, if he was not successful.
    Edward Porter reread the cream letter with the embossed green portcullis. ‘Thank you for your application for the post advertised in the Guardian ,’ it read. ‘We should be grateful if you could attend for interview … Please bring copies of university certificates, testimonials, etc. For your information the post will be in the parliamentary office of the Rt Hon. Diane Clark.’
    The sentences made him catch his breath even though he had them by heart. The original advert had stated baldly that a vacancy had arisen on the private staff of a leading member of the government. For security reasons and to deter time-wasters the name had not been published, though when he telephoned a secretary had been happy to hint that it was a woman. In fact he was delighted that it was Ms Clark. Diane, as everyone called her. A more controversial, outspoken and vigorous employer could not be imagined. The very thought made his pulse race with excitement.
    Edward smoothed down his dark hair. A glance in the mirror showed a slim man of above average height with pale clear skin, a square jaw and a nose turning aquiline. He was smooth-shaven, had short neat hair and wore rimless spectacles to read. He favoured grey or navy blue suits, single-breasted without pinstripes, and a silk tie in his school colours. It was a uniform suitable for a man in his position, but flamboyance was not his style.
    He began to plan the days ahead meticulously. He would have a hair trim on Monday: that would have to be booked. He would tell his supervisor that he had a dental appointment on Tuesday, and stay late the evening